Staying Alive
by JR Granger
Summary: After the Reichenbach Fall. John isn't doing too well without Sherlock. Then, one day he enters 221B to the sound of a violin playing. Is that Sherlock? Where has he been? Why is he back now? Rated T for language and sexual references.
1. Chapter 1

_**Hello, hello, hello!**_

_**I'd like to start off by warning that I am American, and my knowledge of British vernacular is limited to what I've seen in shows and movies, so please inform me if I've said or done something terribly American so that I can fix it.  
**_

_**Other than that, I'd wish for you to enjoy. :)**_

* * *

After the cemetery, after very nearly crying at that tombstone, and that stressful therapy session, John locked himself away again. He went back to the way things were when he had first returned from his tour in Afghanistan. He left 221B and returned to his old apartment outside of the city; he couldn't go back to that place, not without Sherlock. (Mrs. Hudson kept the flat as it was though because she couldn't bring herself to rent it out to anyone else. It helped of course that Mycroft offered to continue paying for the flat.)

Rent still need to be paid, so John got a job at St. Bart's, in the surgery with Molly. Sometimes she tried to initiate conversation, try and lighten the mood and cheer him up a little, but John didn't respond to any of it. What was he supposed to do now? The man who had saved his life, who had given him something to live and breathe for in civilian life, his best friend – gone. All gone.

He kept his service pistol right next to his laptop once again. There it was, right within reach. Quite often it was more than tempting – all he had to do was open that drawer and reach right in. The chamber was always filled, just in case.

But whenever his thoughts got to this point, whenever he came even remotely close, he would have a visitor. Whether it is Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, or sometimes even Mycroft – somehow they always came just in the nick of time, just as he was picking up that gun. Mycroft probably still had him under surveillance; John wouldn't put it past him.

Who knows why they bothered; it's not like he ever spent time with them anymore. Whenever they tried, John would just give glib answers to questions, not bothering to even try to hold up his end of the conversation. What was the point? All conversations were boring without Sherlock – even if he did want to punch him much of the time.

He still keeps up appearances of health – otherwise he wouldn't be able to hold a job and pay his rent, even if he did get checks from the government still. And he still went to his therapy sessions, mostly because his boss practically ordered him to do so, else he wouldn't have a job. But it was the same as before; John barely spoke, had trust issues, no longer kept up his blog.

John Watson was merely going through the paces of life, just barely staying alive.

* * *

One afternoon numerous, endless months after the fall, John was sitting at his desk, staring into the drawer that held his service pistol, once again contemplating pulling it out, just ending this miserable, empty existence he held, when his phone rang across the room. He wouldn't have bothered answering it – he didn't want to be interrupted yet again – but it could be the hospital, calling with an open shift. So John forced his eyes away from the drawer, stood up and walked over to his phone, not looking at the caller id.

"Doctor Watson," he answered out of habit.

A familiar voice spoke on the other end. "John?" said Mrs. Hudson quietly. "I hear someone moving around in the flat upstairs. Would you come check it out, dear?"

His brows furrowed. "I'm sorry Mrs. Hudson but I'm not in the city right now. Why don't you call Greg and have him check for you?"

"I tried dear, but he's on a case right now and he can't come."

Closing his eyes and sighing in frustration and acquiescence, John put on a jacket over his jumper and grabbed his wallet and keys and gun. "All right, I'll hop on the Tube. You go downstairs to the café and wait for me, all right? Don't go upstairs."

Forty-five minutes later he stepped out of a cab in front of 221B Baker Street. Not since before visiting the cemetery had John been there – but for Mrs. Hudson, he steeled himself and unlocked the door with the key he hadn't been able to bring himself to return. As soon as he stepped inside he had to stop, his heart racing at the sound drifting down from his old flat: a violin. Without another thought John was dashing up the stairs, stealth and safety forgotten as he shoved open the door. The sight before him stopped his breath cold.

A tall, lithe figure stood in front of the window by the bookcase, violin balanced between left shoulder a chin, right hand holding the bow, back turned to the entryway. When the door slammed against the wall however, the figure stopped playing, lowered its hands, and slowly turned around.

John felt his heart stop for a second then start back up in double time as the man in front of him, the man he had thought dead for _months_, offered him a small smirk.

"Hello John," said the one and only Sherlock Holmes. When he got nothing more than silence and a dead stare as a response he frowned. "Are you all right John? You seem…" He paused, searching for an appropriate word. "Different."

Standing there, John struggled, trying to decide which urge to resist more: to punch Sherlock in the face, or to give him a bone-crushing, desperate hug. He seemed to have his answer when the wayward consulting detective spoke once more.

Setting down his violin and bow, Sherlock took a small step forward. "As you can imagine, I've needed a lot of helping thinking these past few months so I composed a new song. That's what I was just playing actually." There was another uncharacteristic pause as he strangely hesitated before saying what he wanted, what was on his mind. "I had you in mind when I was –" He was cut off in the middle of his sentence when John lurched forward and gave him a left hook, the opposite of the last time.

"I asked you, _begged _you months ago," John yelled, finally letting down the military calm detachment he'd built back up, "and you were there, weren't you? When I talked to your grave, thanked you for saving my life, and I asked you for _one _favor: Don't. Be. Dead. For me." He threw his hands up in frustration. "And yet you waited, let me believe my best friend was _dead_. You really are a selfish dick, you know that?"

"Selfish? I just disappeared for several months, went without cases, without _anything _that could be traced back to me – and all for _you._" There he went, speaking without thinking about the consequences of his words yet again. But this needed to be said. "You know what I've been doing while I've been dead? I've been watching you, making sure you were all right, making sure none of Moriarty's people came after you even though the order to your life was supposed to be called off when I jumped off St. Bart's.

"I've been watching Moriarty's men, dismantling his web, making sure they would never be able to come after us again so I could come back and things could go back to the way they were. I died not for me, but for you. _You, _John." Then almost as an afterthought he added, "And Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade," just to be sure John didn't read into things more than he should.

Standing there, so close to Sherlock after so long, hearing him prattle on about how much he'd done – and for _him, _for John… He couldn't help himself. John rushed forward again, this time to embrace Sherlock, John's arms wrapping tightly around him and his chin hooking over Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock stood ramrod straight, and though his arms weren't trapped beneath John's, he didn't give a notion he was going to move them any time soon.

Brows furrowed and eyes looking around in confusion, trying to find some answer as to what was going on, Sherlock frowned. "John… what're you doing?"

"What d'you think?" There was John's voice, quiet and so very close to his ear. "I haven't seen my best friend in months, I thought he was dead. I'm hugging you, you idiot." John briefly squeezed him more tightly, as if to prove a point.

As he spoke Sherlock felt John's breath tickle his ear, and with their bodies pressed so closely together he felt John's heartbeat, just below his own, and at an irregular pace, a pace he had felt from someone before. And he was acutely aware of John's hands resting against his back; he felt the heat of them through both his jacket and shirt. Sherlock's face twisted, not exactly in confusion, as he felt his body start to stir and react to all these observations.

He'd once told Irene Adler that he understood the chemistry associated with love – and just so, he knew how to detect it in others, as he had with her, as he was doing with John just that moment. But he had never experience any such thing himself, never thought he would. Sherlock Holmes didn't _feel…_

_But maybe he did. _He did, after all, fake his death to save the lives of others, something he would never had done once upon a time. He did call John just before doing so to – to what? Help himself feel better about what he had been about to do? To help John move on from him after his "death"?

And he had watched John, and the others, to make sure they were safe, to make sure no harm would come to them because of him, before he even thought about coming back from the dead.

So maybe Sherlock Holmes wasn't a selfish child after all. And maybe he _did _feel. He certainly was in that moment, standing there pressed so closely to John, his best friend, his only friend.

There was this strange part of him that wanted to reciprocate, that wanted to hug John back – but he couldn't possibly do that; he was Sherlock Holmes, he didn't show affection. Hell, he didn't show emotion at all because that was something he wasn't supposed to do; he wasn't supposed to feel, feelings just got in the way.

Except he _was_ feeling. Sherlock _was _experience emotions, and strong emotions at that. And all because of John.

Standing there, wrapped tightly in John's arms, Sherlock felt strangely happy. Then again, because of John, Sherlock was doing all sorts of things he never would've done before. For once he decided not to question it as he had this intense craving for not just human contact but that with John and John alone. Resisting another urge, this time to lower his head, close his eyes and bury his face in John's hair - still cut military-style – and breathe in deeply. He did, however, unconsciously sigh in contentment at the feeling of being embraced.

Feeling Sherlock breathe deeply and give a low sigh, John's eyes snapped back open and his breath hitched. His body reacted immediately and without his consent, rocking forward into Sherlock's and drawing a moan from deep within his chest. Before he could go any further however, John scrambled back and all the way to the couch, flopping down in a rather unceremonious manner and burying his face in his hands, breathing and pulse erratic.

When Sherlock suddenly felt the cold air against his front, the strong scent of John fading ever so slightly, he opened his eyes, confused as to where his friend had gone and why. Looking around he saw the former army doctor sitting on the couch, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. For once worried about someone's feelings – well, actually just John's feelings – Sherlock walked over and sat down on the couch next to him. For a moment he was silent, thinking about what could possibly be bothering John so much that he would abruptly end their wonderful hug – even if John had been the only one doing the hugging. However, he couldn't think of what that might be so Sherlock decided he'd better ask.

"John…" he started. "Is something… wrong? Did I do something wrong just now?" Then he thought about the fact that he hadn't hugged John back – because, let's face it, that's not exactly Sherlock's cup of tea. "Or rather, not do something?"

His voice came out muffled from behind his hands. "It's nothing," said John, "I'm fine, just – I'm fine."

Sherlock frowned, detecting that John wasn't, in fact, fine. "Listen," he tried again, "I'll admit I don't have much experience when it comes to, well, any sort of relationship, but you're my only friend and I would like to help you in any way I can."

Taking a deep breath, John finally looked back up at his best friend, trying to decide if he should fess up and tell the truth. Either way, he figured Sherlock wouldn't grasp what was going on inside his head very well. On the other hand, perhaps if he told the truth he would feel better, even better than he already did with Sherlock alive and there with him.

Finally John spoke. "Why are you asking me this? Why are you even concerned?" he inquired. "The Sherlock I know would notice and would not be bothered enough to ask, or say I was stupid for dwelling over whatever silly thing is occupying my mind."

Silent for a moment, actually considering what John said before voicing a response, Sherlock muttered, "Because, like I said, you're my best friend; I actually do care about you hence me being gone for so long. And you say I'm the thick one when it comes to things like this…"

"I missed you," admitted John quietly. "You're my best friend, you saved my life, saved me from myself – twice now, you've done that."

"Oh, well, just doing my job," interrupted Sherlock with his trademark smirk.

"It isn't though," John protested. "You didn't have to breathe life back into me by bringing me into your life."

Smirk still in place, Sherlock turned slightly so that he could look at John while he was speaking. "I was bored," he said, "I needed something new in my life. And I suppose I actually needed an actually person, someone who actually cared." Sherlock chuckled at himself. "Look at me, being ordinary and admitting I'm human, that I actually need you."

At that, John lifted his head back up again and looked Sherlock in the eye, shocked that he would say something like that, something so human, so emotional. "What?" he asked, wanting to be sure he heard correctly.

Holding John's gaze, Sherlock reached out and clasped John's right hand in his own left. "I need you, John Watson," Sherlock repeated slowly. "I feel absurd saying this, but I am a better person, a better man, when I am with you."

Mouth gaping open, heart pounding erratically and excitedly, John stared a moment at Sherlock, processing his words. His eyes shifted rapidly back and forth, focusing on each of Sherlock's eyes in turn, as he came to his decision.

For the third time that day John lurched forward, once again for a different reason from the times before. In this instance, John let go of Sherlock's hand and lifted both of his own so as to take ahold of Sherlock's face, holding it in place while John lurched toward him and met his lips a bit roughly, his eyes closing on impact.

Meanwhile, Sherlock sat there and let John do as he pleased, until he saw John coming closer once again, until he felt John's hands on either side of his face, until he felt John's lips on his own. At that point Sherlock's eyes widened in shock; as much as he has bragged about being able to see things others can not, as good as he is at deducing, Sherlock Holmes had not expected this, had not expected John to "lay one on him". In this rare moment of shock Sherlock found himself following the impulses of his body as he started to kiss John back. Just as he had during the hug, he found he was rather enjoying himself. There was even a tingling sensation shooting up and down his spine and along his limbs.

When he felt Sherlock kissing him back John simply couldn't help himself: he moaned and leaned ever more forward and he sat up more, so as to get at Sherlock's mouth at more of an angle. Bearing down, John forced Sherlock's lips apart with his own, eliciting a gasp from the other man, and shoved in his tongue without so much as a courtesy lick. One hand moved to Sherlock's jaw and tilted his head back slightly while the other moved to the back of his head to yank on the hair.

Sherlock allowed John to keep going, allowed him to force his tongue down his throat, but as soon as he felt the tug on his hair, as soon as he felt intense stirringly from within, _arousal _that caused him to _moan, _he brought his hands up to John's shoulders and shoved him away, to the other side of the couch, before he stood back up and started pacing, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides while he muttered to himself.

On the couch John took deep breaths to calm himself down, watching wearily as Sherlock paced in front of him. After a few moments of this, John thought it best to speak; to make sure Sherlock was all right after he sprung a move on him like that. "Sherlock…" he started off hesitantly, trying to get the consulting detective's attention. "I – I'm sorry I did that, I shouldn't have done such a thing without asking you first – hell, I shouldn't have done that at all, not to you."

At that last statement Sherlock halted abruptly, turning to face John. "'Not on me'? What is that supposed to mean?"

"I mean," said John slowly, not wanting to cause any more trouble, "that you're Sherlock Holmes, you don't know a single thing about romance, besides whatever that hell it is you and Irene Adler had going on there. Hell, you barely even know how to function within a friendship!" Standing up, John stood in front of Sherlock and looked him in the eye once again. "Seeing you for the first time in several months – it got my heart starting again, it – it caused some emotions to run on high and I apologize for not keeping them in check and then acting on them."

With that said and a curt nod, John turned sharply and took a step toward the doorway – but a hand reached out and pulled him to a stop.

"John, wait," Sherlock said in a strangled voice, causing John to turn around with a look of concern; the only times Sherlock had sounded like that were when he was questioning himself during the Baskerville case and during their phone call right before he jumped off St. Bart's. What John saw scared him because there stood a man broken, a man lost and confused as he felt something new, something foreign, something he'd strived against all his life. "I –" Sherlock broke himself off and pulled John forward so that his body would collide with his own, so that when John reached him Sherlock could be the one kissing him roughly this time, mouth immediately open this time and tongue searching, exploring every inch.

John moaned and took advantage of the fact his hands were trapped between their chests, clutching at the lapels of Sherlock's jacket and pulling him every closer, leaning more on his weight on the balls of his feet to make himself slightly taller, all the while thinking, _For never having done this before, he is one hell of a kisser. _

Even though he found himself moaning again, Sherlock didn't stop this time. Instead he let his body take over, letting the kiss stay heated while his mind kept working, taking note of what John responded extremely well to, what he responded well to, all the sensations running through his body, the overall mechanics of the whole thing. For instance, he noticed that when his hands strayed down to John's hips then back to his ass John responded by bucking his hips forward and moaning. His own hips did the same, grinding into John's lower stomach, when one of John's hands trailed up once more to the back of Sherlock's head and tugged at the hair. Eventually Sherlock had to pull back to take a deep breath of air and steady himself a bit. When he did so John trailed kisses down to his chin and along his jaw before latching on the skin just below the ear, at the joint of the jaw. Sucking, licking, and biting, John used the hand on the back of Sherlock's head to pull it to the side and give him better access. The nips made Sherlock moan, more so when John moved onto the earlobe, sucking and biting.

With the little self-control he had left John pulled back, eyes hooded with lust, to check on Sherlock. "Are you good," he panted, "to keep going? Or do you need to stop and assess?"

Breathing erratic and shallow, Sherlock blinked several times in an attempt to clear his ever-churning mind. Looking at John he found breathing and heart rate to match his own, dilated pupils, and clear arousal. Taking an inventory of himself Sherlock found much the same. Curious about what other ordinary things he may be capable of because of John, Sherlock tightened his grip on the abnormally scrawny doctor and lowered his head so that his mouth was right next to John's ear and whispered, "Teach me, John. Teach me how to give one pleasure, give _you _pleasure, and happiness, in ways I'd never imagined I would ever want or need to."

John shivered at Sherlock's words, and the feel of breath against his ear. Did Sherlock mean what he thought he did? Was he giving John control? "Of course," he replied, voice wavering, in awe of Sherlock, before extricating himself from Sherlock's hold to lead him upstairs to his own bedroom, slamming the door shut and shoving Sherlock against it, John relieving him of his jacket and kissing and nipping across his collarbone as he unbuttoned the shirt.

Sherlock let himself be led, moaning at the impact with the door then squirming as John started undressing him, placing his own hand on the top of John's, clawing slightly at the scalp at particularly stirring sensations when John found a sensitive spot on his chest, right where the sternum was located. Reaching up his hands slightly, John pushed Sherlock's shoulders back against the door to keep him in place, stopping the attention he was giving to Sherlock's chest to look up at him and shake his head.

"Don't move so much," he ordered sternly.

Raising a brow at the demand Sherlock decided he wanted to be in control, because let's face it, when isn't he the one in control in this relationship? He quickly took ahold of John's arms at the biceps and spun the around, pinning the other man even more roughly than John had done to him, John groaning at the impact. Then Sherlock pulled off John's jumper while the doctor was still a tad stunned before shedding his own unbuttoned shirt and before John has the chance to try to do anything in retaliation Sherlock covered his mouth with his own, swallowing John's small cry of protest.

This time John was the one struggling against the other man's ministrations and Sherlock used John's own words against him, growling "don't move" against his lips before moving on to the neck, worrying at the skin to leave a huge red mark. John, in response, swiftly undid Sherlock's belt and torn it off, leaving room for him to stick his hands down the back of Sherlock's pants and grab his ass cheeks, digging in his nails. With a gasp and a growl, Sherlock pulled back away from John's neck to capture his lips once again, moving his hands down to start working at John's pants as well.

Unfortunately, while the two got their pants down at the same time, they had forgotten about either of their shoes, causing John to snort and Sherlock to chuckle at the ridiculousness. The two men stood there with no shirts and their pants around their ankles in the middle of John's bedroom, laughing at themselves and the situation. Eventually they simmered down and John started clothing himself again, pulling up his pants and grabbing his jumper off the floor. Slightly confused once again (he thought they had been going somewhere with this, that John was more than happy to see him, especially going by the erection he still clearly had) and frustrated with himself for the fact that he was confused in the first place, Sherlock followed suit, buttoning and tucking in his shirt before flopping onto the edge of John's bed with a slight pout.

Looking up from buckling his belt John saw Sherlock sitting on his bed with his arms crossed in front of his chest and a tiny pout on his face. Smiling slightly and shaking his head John went over and sat on the bed next to him, reaching out and turning his head so that they were looking at each other.

"What's the matter," John asked, "why the pout?"

Grumbling, Sherlock uncrossed his arms and threw them in the air. "This!" he exclaimed. "I come home at last, because it's safe and because I miss you, and we start doing this," he does a little motion between their bodies, indicating the two of them, "and it's new and exciting and nothing I'd ever thought I'd want to do. But I do, very much so. The emotions are strange, I hate feeling, it's horrible and ordinary – but it feels so good, being close to you.

"These conflicting thoughts, they're running through my head, but I seem to be enjoying it, and you most certainly are, so I just keep doing what my body instinctively tells me for once in my life.

"Then all of a sudden you stop the snogging, stop everything and get dressed, acting like this is some ordinary thing, like you're used to doing this – which are probably are because, let's face it John, you've had a lot of girlfriends since we've met. But I'm confused as to why we stopped, then I'm frustrated with the mere fact that I'm actually confused about something, then I'm angry with myself for even caring about all this and I just –"

John stopped his rant, covering Sherlock's mouth with his hand. "Don't analyze it so much," he said softly, moving his hand once he was sure Sherlock wouldn't keep talking and stroking that sharp cheekbone of his with his thumb. "Just let yourself _feel, _don't think about it and just let yourself go."

Brows furrowed, Sherlock resisted the strange urge to lean into John's touch. "I can't just stop thinking John," he protested. "As I've said before, my brain is constantly at work, analyzing people and their actions, my surroundings, thinking about my experiments, thinking of new experiments – thinking is my job, it's my life."

Looking at Sherlock, John knew he was telling the truth, he knew that's how he was from the get-go – but looking at him then, John saw the conflict in Sherlock's eyes, saw that he was struggling to understand what it was he was feeling all of a sudden. And it was all because of him. John had made Sherlock human, or as close to it as he could be.

Sighing in defeat, John sat back, removing his hand from Sherlock's cheek, and leaned against the headboard, trying to get a bit away from the other man but not too far. He sat with his knees upraised, arms folded loosely around them, head leaning back and eyes closed as he tried to accept the fact that maybe Sherlock really wasn't ready for something like this, wasn't ready for a legitimate relationship of any kind.

The change of demeanor in John didn't escape Sherlock – nothing about John escaped Sherlock's attention. Frowning, he turned on the bed so they were facing each other and mirrored John's position. He looked down at their feet, thinking about what his next move should be, and then stopping himself as John's words rang through his head. _Just let yourself __**feel**__, don't think about it and just let yourself go._

Lurching forward, Sherlock took John's face delicately in his hands and placed a kiss on his lips, leaning into it to give a little pressure, trying to convey that he was trying to do what John asked, trying to follow his body's instincts, trying to go with what he was _feeling_ and not think.

John opened his eyes as he felt the bed shift with Sherlock's sudden movements and gave a small gasp as he felt the other man kiss him so sweetly, with so much emotion behind it. He returned the kiss, understanding what Sherlock was trying to tell him, and just a little bit proud that Sherlock was actually taking his words and trying to put them in practice. Keeping his eyes open to gaze at the beautiful man in front of him John savored the moment and memorized the feeling of Sherlock's hands on his face, all in case this was some cruel dream, messing with him.

* * *

_**So, I'm not sure just yet whether this is just going to be a one-shot or continue. Either way, I'd love for you to review, let me know what you thought!**_

_**Thanks for reading! :)  
**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: Because of FFn's ratings policy, and the fact they started deleting stories with smut, I had to write a different version for on here. If you'd like to read the smutty Johnlock goodness, head on over to and search for "Staying Alive" or "JR_Granger". ;)**_

_**Also, dear**_Anonymous: _**I'm glad you wanted me to continue, and thanks, you are too sweet! I hope you enjoy this chapter. :)**_

* * *

Lying in bed side by side and trying to catch their breath from previous activities, John rolled over onto his stomach, throwing a leg nonchalantly over Sherlock's waist and folding his arms on his chest so that John can rest his chin on his hands and look up at his best friend – _lover, _he corrected himself. Sherlock opened his eyes marginally and looked down at John with a smirk, eyebrows raised.

"Can I help you?" he asked as he closed his eyes again and relished the moment. "Or can you not help but stare at me in post-coital bliss?"

Rolling his eyes and resisting the urge to snicker, John lazily kicked one of Sherlock's legs. "Oi, shut it you," he snapped, unable to hide the laughter in his voice. He merely got a widened smirk in return, so he decided to continue to stare until he got more of a response.

Knowing what John was trying to do Sherlock lay still for a few moments, weighing his options. Should he just wait until John became impatient and said what was on his mind, or should he torture him until he spoke? Both were viable options. He decided on the former.

When Sherlock still hadn't moved after several minutes of staring, John scowled and moved a hand to stab him violently in the side. Still nothing, so he leaned forward and roughly bit Sherlock's pectoral. This only earned him a laugh and an offhanded comment of "Really John? I thought we were keeping such actions restricted to _during _sex." Scowling, John harrumphed and attempted to roll once more onto his back. However, a pair of long arms shot out and wrapped themselves tightly around John's torso, preventing such movement.

Eyes still closed and smirk still firmly in place, Sherlock spoke once again. "And where do you think you're going?" he muttered. "I thought you had a question for me."

"How -" John started before shaking his head in disbelief – more at himself than Sherlock really. "Never mind, of course you knew." He pulled himself more fully onto Sherlock and sat up so that their faces were merely inches apart. "And I have _multiple _questions for you, and I expect sufficient answers."

Finally opening his eyes and letting his smirk waver slightly, Sherlock looked right into John's eyes, deciding whether he should be honest – though it certainly depended on the questions he was given. "Hmm," he hummed with a raised brow. "I suppose it's the least I owe you. Ask away."

John sat up more fully, blinking in surprise. He honestly didn't expect Sherlock to give in at all, let alone so quickly. Eyes narrowed in surprise, he questioned suspiciously, "What are you playing at? Why are you so open to answering my questions?"

Putting on an innocent expression, Sherlock replied, "Why, whatever do you mean, John?"

Sighing, John extracted himself from Sherlock's gasp and got up of the bed, gathering his clothing and getting dressed. Curious, Sherlock sat up and watched, brows furrowed. "What are you doing? I said I'd answer your questions."

Back to the bed and pulling on his pants, he replied quietly, "That's no guarantee you're going to answer honestly."

When he finally turned around, Sherlock saw the frustration in his eyes. He sighed and started getting dressed as well. "If you can't accept the information I'm willing to give you, then I guess there's no point in even trying," grumbled Sherlock as he buttoned his shirt and headed toward the doorway.

Stopping what he was doing, John rushed over and grabbed Sherlock's hand to pull him to a stop. This willingness to share, then the storming out so quickly – this wasn't like Sherlock at all. Intertwining their fingers, John turned Sherlock around and placed a hand on his cheek so he would look him in the eye. "What's the matter?" he asked gently.

With a cock of the head and a frown, Sherlock said, "What do you mean? Nothing's wrong."

"Somehow I don't believe you," John deadpanned. Silence. "Seriously Sherlock, you're not acting like yourself. What's wrong?"

"I'm trying -" he uncharacteristically hesitated.

"What?" Looking in Sherlock's eyes, John expected to find nothing, but there was anguish there, which was something he most definitely did not want to see. So he leaned forward and placed a light kiss on his lips.

When he felt John's lips on his, Sherlock hardened the kiss in desperation, grabbing John's hips and pulling them flush against his own. He wanted to be as close to John as possible.

John moaned as the kiss turned dirty and desperate, as he felt Sherlock mold their groins together, still sensitive so soon after just having had sex. His hands travelled automatically into his hair, twining the strands around his fingers and tugging roughly, eliciting a growl from Sherlock, who started slowly walking them back toward the bed. When he felt the backs of this knees hit the edge of the bed for the second time that day, John pulled back with a gasp.

"Sherlock, no," he breathed, pushing the other man away gently, but keeping their foreheads together. "Neither of us are ready for that again, and we really do need to talk."

Resigned, Sherlock stepped back the rest of the way and folded his arms over his chest with a pout. "Fine," he grumbled.

Smiling slightly, John tilted his head toward the doorway. "C'mon, let's go downstairs," he said. "We can sit comfortably and have some tea and biscuits." Slowly he walked down the stairs to the kitchen of their flat, looking back every couple steps to make sure Sherlock was still following, if a bit grumpily.

Upon reaching his destination John set about with the tea while Sherlock flopped onto the couch in his usual pouty manner. Once he was done John brought it out to the living room and set it on the table between their chairs. Since Sherlock was across the room, living with his back turned on the couch, John lopped a biscuit at him, hitting him squarely in the back of the head. Sherlock rolled over and glared at John.

"Well are you going to come over here and talk, or stay over there pouting," John demanded.

Grumbling, Sherlock rolled off the couch and hopped into his chair, sitting back on his heels and balancing his tea on his upraised knees. John pursed his lips as he watched Sherlock, making sure he was ready to pay attention and answer questions. After finishing his tea, Sherlock set his cup down on the table and sat more properly in his chair, with his legs crossed and his hands steepled under his chin – all to show John he had his undivided attention.

A skeptical brow raised John asked, "Ready?" just to be sure. When he received a firm nod he set down his own cup and took a deep breath to gather himself. "Okay…" he started. "You said you had been watching me to make sure I was truly safe from Moriarty's men. Were – were you watching me yourself or did you have your homeless network doing it for you?"

Sherlock was silent for so long that John initially thought he hadn't heard him so he opened his mouth to reiterate – but just then Sherlock gave his answer. "When I had to deal with his more troublesome minions I had the network watch you. But generally, yes, I did watch you myself." He looked up at John before he continued. "The homeless are useful in many ways, but when it comes to ensuring your safety I don't trust anyone but the best. So, myself."

Nodding, John slowly absorbed his answer, trying to decide if he accepted that answer. Knowing Sherlock he was probably leaving out a few details, but that was the best he was going to get. And, again, for Sherlock it was actually really sweet. So John smiled and nodded, deciding that was a good enough answer – for now.

When there were no more inquiries, Sherlock raised a questioning brow. "Is that it?" He was ready to be done with this nonsense.

Shaking his head with a small smile, John replied, "Not quite. I'd like to hear the entirety of that song you were playing when I walked in, the one you said you composed because of me."

He knew this was coming – but no matter; he enjoyed playing the violin, especially if it was for John. So he got up and went over to his violin and set about it, settling the instrument on his shoulder and double-checking it was still tuned properly before jumping into the melody.

The song was far longer than any of the others John had heard Sherlock compose during the time they had been living together. In fact it was the most beautiful thing John had ever heard in his life – especially going by the standards today. Throughout the song Sherlock had his eyes closed as he played as if he were lost in the music. This made John smile because Sherlock looked so content and worry-free. It was nice to see him at peace, if only few a few minutes.

Finishing with a flourish, Sherlock lowered the violin and bow as he opened his eyes and looked at John, awaiting a reaction.

Grinning widely, John got out of his chair and walked over to Sherlock, grabbing his face with both his hands and placing an obnoxious yet appreciative kiss on his lips. "That was amazing," he said, in awe, "and very beautiful."

To others, the smile Sherlock gave in response may have cynical and sarcastic – but John knew, from looking at the crinkle of his eyes, and because this was Sherlock, that it was very much genuine.

"I'm glad you liked it, John," he said, setting the instrument down carefully.

Brow furrowed and head cocked, John said in confusion, "H-How were you able to compose this? All your stuff has been here since – since you've been gone."

"Who said I need a violin to compose something?" Sherlock replied with a smirk.

Rolling his eyes affectionately, John gave him a light shove. "Don't be such an insufferable know-it-all dick," he muttered.

"Well clearly I'm not _too _insufferable considering you're here," Sherlock shot back, eyes twinkling.

Choosing to ignore that comment, John decided he would go back to his old flat to retrieve the things he had there so that he could return them to 221B. He didn't figure Sherlock would want to accompany him, given he was supposed to be dead and all – _I'll have to ask Sherlock how he plans on going about revealing to everyone else that he's still alive, _John thought to himself. _Knowing him, he'll probably just nonchalantly walk into a room and plop himself into a chair with no explanation. – _so he left Sherlock to do whatever he pleased to entertain himself while he was gone. Luckily John was taking his gun with him, out of habit, so Sherlock wouldn't be able to shoot the wall in boredom.

Before heading out, he made sure to stop at Mrs. Hudson's flat and let her know everything was all right – and that he had decided to move back in.

"Oh that's wonderful, dear!" she exclaimed, grinning happily as she gave him a tight hug. "It's been so quiet and lonely here without my boys."

John resisted the urge to grimace, hoping Mrs. Hudson didn't get excitement in the form of Sherlock just waltzing downstairs for whatever reason.

Not wanting to leave Sherlock on his own for too long – who knows what he's been doing with himself all these months while watching John, because that couldn't have been too exciting – John when about gathering his things as quickly as he could. Grabbing a duffle from his closet, John tossed in his clothes unceremoniously, cringing as he did so. Luckily he didn't have many worldly possessions, so it really didn't take all that long and he was able to hop on the last Tube into the city. Catching a cab, on the other hand, was a tad bit harder as by that time it seemed to be rush hour. He was almost ready to call up Lestrade, out of pure frustration, when he finally caught one.

By the time he got back to 221B John was starving so after dropping off his duffel in his room he called in for take-away from Angelo's, ordering some food for Sherlock even thought chances were slim he would actually eat it considering the man ate very little, even when not on a case. It was a miracle Sherlock was alive and healthy, considering his eating and sleeping patterns.

When the food arrived John still hadn't seen Sherlock since he had gotten back, so he searched around the flat – with no result.

"Where the fuck did that bastard go?" he growled, resisting the urge to punch something.

* * *

Several hours later, at about three-thirty in the morning, a familiar slim figure slunk into the flat. Upon reaching the doorway to the living room the figure stopped in its tracks and sighed.

Flipping on the lamp next to his chair, John stayed sat in the chair as calmly as possible, gaze full of wrath. "I suppose I should've expected you to wander off without warning," John announced with preamble, "but yet, I can't help by find myself fighting the urge to throttle you right now."

"Oh John," Sherlock sighed, flopping into his armchair. "Don't let your emotions get the better of you; they only get in the way."

"Clearly you still don't have such a problem," he replied through clenched teeth, hands curled into tight fists on the arms of the chair.

"…Not good?"

Launching himself out of his chair and toward Sherlock, John stopped right in front of him, arms on either side of his head, faces mere centimeters apart. "What do you think?" he ground out.

Eyes flashing back and forth between John's, reading him, Sherlock took the best course of action up his sleeve: he closed the space between them and latched onto John's mouth.

Not expecting this response, John gave a small gasp that allowed Sherlock to insert his tongue and massage the roof of his mouth, making John shiver. _Seriously, how is he so good at __**everything**__, _thought John in consternation as he struggled to pull back from the more than satisfactory kiss, their lips breaking apart with a loud _smack_.

Choosing to ignore the arousal Sherlock had stirred awake with his sneak attack, John glared at him once again. "What do you think you're doing? I'm busy here, yelling at you for how thick you are when it comes to decency and courtesy."

Once again putting on an innocent expression, Sherlock drawled, "_Dull. _Why do that when we can engage in activities much more worth our time?"

"You are hopeless," muttered John before he acquiesced, reattaching their lips and making sure to be rough – just to get the message across.

Fighting to not get lost in the snogging, John was able to ask in breaks for breath "How then – is this not – considered – dull – _mmm_ – or a waste – of time – but me – _nngh _– trying to – teach you – proper – _ahh _– social behavior – is?"

Smirking as he broke off, Sherlock pulled John roughly into his lap and dove at his neck, sucking roughly and biting ruthlessly. Lips brushing, tickling against the sensitive skin of John's neck, he answered, "Because you've tried numerous times, and you refuse to accept it won't work. _This, _however, while it has already been done, is still new and intriguing – especially given the fact there are always new things to discover and test and new ways to experiment.

"In short, it's nowhere near boring."

"Mmm I'm glad shagging doesn't bore you," moaned John sarcastically as Sherlock sucked at a particularly sensitive spot below his ear.

"Not in the least," Sherlock groaned back. "Though I propose that we switch things up a bit this time."

"Which translates to 'we are doing things my way whether you like it or not.'"

He stopped worrying John's neck to smirk at him. "Precisely," he basically crooned. "But don't worry John, I'm sure you'll find it more than enjoyable."

John couldn't help but moan at that. "Cocksure bastard," he said before diving back in.

* * *

The pair lay in Sherlock's bed on top of the covers, the pair of them sweaty and panting, Sherlock on top of John, who was too sated to protest. Eventually he had enough energy to reach back up and run a hand lazily through Sherlock's hair to gain his attention. When he turned his head so that his face was no longer pressed into the crook of John's neck and shoulder but facing John's own visage, John gave him a fairly serious look considering their current positions and demanded, "Don't disappear like that without warning ever again. I already had to deal with that for months; I don't ever want to experience that feeling again."

Sherlock gazed at John's face, no doubt reading him quite clearly. The question was whether he would take John's words and expression seriously and respond accordingly.

"I can't make any promises, John, you know that," Sherlock started, slowly for him. _I should have expected that, _John thought bitterly before Sherlock reached up a hand of his own and stroked his face rather gently. John took this to mean Sherlock would try his best to not do that to him again – and that was the best he could expect.

And it was enough.

* * *

When Sherlock awoke it was to the feel of a warm body pressed firmly against his own. He looked over at the clock. Had he really slept - and for approximately three hours at that? How _dull, _and a waste of time. But when he turned his head to the warmth radiating on his right side, Sherlock felt the corners of his lips quirk up at the corners at the sight of John sleeping contentedly, body mostly off of Sherlock with only a head on his shoulder and an arm thrown across his abdomen, squeezing almost possessively, as if he sensed the urge Sherlock felt to escape to the living room to play his violin and _think_.He considered inching out from underneath John, or just dumping him unceremoniously onto the other side of the bed.

Before he got the chance though, John stirred and yawned, blinking awake. Once the yawn was done with he looked up at Sherlock with a small smile on his face. "Hey," John muttered with a sleep-laden voice. "You're still here."

"Because you wouldn't let me get up," Sherlock replied a bit louder than necessary, earning him a glare and another kick. He just back at John.

With a sigh John rolled off the bed and left the room, naked. Sherlock stayed where he was, listening to John's movements in the bathroom adjacent to the bedroom, the showerhead turning on shortly. At this, Sherlock got out of bed as well and followed after, stopping in the doorway to yell over the pounding of the water, "Not good?"

Sticking his head out from behind the showerhead to glare at Sherlock, John gritted out, "A bit not good." Mouth in a straight line as he considered that, Sherlock left the room without preamble. "Where the hell are you going?" John shouted after him.

"Making tea!" came the distant reply.

Rolling his eyes and muttering vague threats, John went back to showering. Once he was finished, John dried off and threw on one of Sherlock's tartan dressing gowns that had still been hanging on the back of the door, and headed out to the kitchen. What he found there made him pause in the doorway in shock and confusion.

On the table, where once all kinds of beakers and cylinders had sat, were a kettle and teacups, sugar and milk, and plates with toast – with jam – and eggs and bacon.

"Wha-" was all John could manage, his mouth agape. He looked at Sherlock, who was sitting at the table reading the paper and eating his breakfast, as if there was absolutely nothing strange about. "Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock?" John couldn't help but ask, absolutely flummoxed.

Folding the paper over onto his fingers, Sherlock glanced at John, expression blank as per usual. "What do you mean, John?" he queried before going back to his activities.

John walked over to Sherlock, shoved aside the paper, and made Sherlock look at him so he could check his pupils weren't dilated, checking his pulse at the same time. When there was nothing amiss, John flopped into his seat still utterly confused. He sat there, staring at his food and trying to figure out what was going on when Sherlock chastised, "Eat your food, John. You don't want all of Mrs. Hudson's hard work to go to waste, do you?"

"Mrs. Hudson? Wha-"

Then in walked the subject of his question, smile firmly in place. "Morning, dear," she gushed before looking at his plate. "Eat your food, dear. This is a one-time deal. I'm not your house keeper, dear."

Still a little lost – Why was Mrs. Hudson acting like there was nothing amiss, like Sherlock hadn't just come back from the dead – John settled into his seat more comfortably and started in on his food, realizing how hungry he was from their recent activities, and forgetting momentarily that he was mad at Sherlock.

* * *

_**Once again, if I did anything terribly American, please let me know. Also, if you find my Sherlock isn't up to snuff - please**_ please**_ let me know. Otherwise, I hope you enjoyed!_**


	3. Chapter 3

_**Attempting to start a real storyline. Tis a gradually process, ahaha. Once again, let me know if I make an atrocious, silly mistakes or if you have any story ideas. Otherwise enjoy my dears! :)**_

* * *

Once Mrs. Hudson had felt to go next door, John left the room to plop into his chair and read the morning paper. With a sigh Sherlock followed after him, sitting in his own chair but perched on the edge, leaning toward the other man. When the doctor didn't look up from his reading, just huffed in exasperation, Sherlock sighed and attempted an apology – a rare occurrence by far.

"Look, John," he started off, "I didn't mean I didn't enjoy lying with you in bed – because I did, very much so. It's just – I needed to think and you know I -"

John interrupted. "Save it Sherlock," he said. "I get it, okay?"

"No, John, I don't think you do," Sherlock protested, raising his hand to stop John from interrupting again. "Yes, I needed to leave the room, to come out here and think – but I wasn't panicking. I wasn't thinking this morning, or the day before, was a mistake.

"What I needed to think about was how I was going to do this." Sliding gracefully out of his chair, Sherlock knelt in front of John's and finally drawing the other man's gaze. "Because I want to do this John. I know I'm not the best at relationships and 'proper' communication," at this John snorted, "but that is only because such things are dull and pointless.

"You and I, however, _you, _you matter. You are more than worth it to try to do such dull things as cuddle." He grinned to show he was joking about cuddling being dull – though he did have to repress a shudder at the fact he seemed to enjoy something so mundane, and at the fact that he was giving such a cliché speech.

Despite himself, John began to grin. After all, this was Sherlock kneeling before him, giving a romantic speech about wanting to try this next stage in their strange relationship. So he couldn't help but deliver a shot at his friend/lover, rub it in and let him squirm.

"I don't know…" mused John, laughter in his blue eyes. "Relationships are so _dull_…"

Unable to resist the urge, Sherlock rolled his eyes, making John laugh aloud. "So does this mean I am forgiven?"

When John reopened his eyes and looked at the other, he found Sherlock lightly pouting. "Oh all right," he allowed.

Smiling in triumph, Sherlock stood back up. "Good man, John," he beamed, before leaning down and capturing John's mouth, quickly inserting his tongue and exploring, then breaking away just as abruptly to go take a shower of his own. John tried to chase after his lips but when he found only empty space he cursed Sherlock, whose rumbling laughter echoed down the hall.

* * *

Not much later, the partners were in the living room, Sherlock playing his Stradivarius and jotting down on sheet music paper, and John reading a book and enjoying the music. After several minutes of reading the same line over again, John set down his book and watched the other before deciding to ask the question on his mind.

"How are you going to do it?"

Stilling his bow and lowering the violin, Sherlock faced John, eyebrows raised in askance.

"Come back from the dead. And don't say you were just going to show up at the Yard with me."

"…Okay, I won't."

Sighing in resignation, John went back to his book.

* * *

The next day found John meeting up with Lestrade at a nearby pub. He had texted the Detective Inspector that morning, saying they needed to talk about something. The doctor arrived early, sitting at a table and drumming his fingers in impatience. When Greg finally walked in John waved him over, motioning to the brew he'd already ordered and set on the other side of the table for him.

Eyebrows raised in curiosity – _What's got him all stirred up? I haven't seen him this, well, alive in months! _– the gentleman slid in the chair across from John, taking a gulp to prepare himself for whatever the other man had to tell him. "Well, out with it, mate," he said after swallowing.

Mentally preparing himself, John looked up at his friend and just spit it out. "Sherlock's alive," he blurted, not able to hold it in any longer.

Setting down his glass as carefully as possible, Greg stared with a dumbstruck expression, afraid the doctor had finally had a psychotic break after months of absolutely no life or emotion. "John, I really don't think that's possible… You saw him, he – he can't possibly – not even Sherlock could've survived that fall, or been able to fake that."

Shaking his head good-naturedly and smiling – actually _smiling, _crinkly eyes full of life – John said, "That's where you're wrong. C'mon, finish your beer and I'll take you back to 221B."

Even more shocked still – last he'd known, the good doctor hadn't set foot in the flat he shared with the enigmatic consulting detective since just after the funeral – Lestrade gulped down the rest of the incredibly hoppy drink and followed John out and down the few blocks to the Baker Street flat.

Walking in, Lestrade couldn't help but note that everything looked just as it had the last time he'd been there, when he had arrested Sherlock. In fact, that very man was even in his customary chair, oiling his violin bow as if nothing were amiss. Greg stood in the doorway, spluttering, as Sherlock smiled briefly up at him. "Lestrade," he said, as if he hadn't been bloody _dead _for the past several months.

"What the bloody hell is going on here?" the DI was finally able to exclaim to the room at large.

Rolling his eyes as per usual, Sherlock replied, "Isn't it obvious Lestrade? I faked my death to save your lives – yours, Mrs. Hudson's, and John's."

"…Really?" he deadpanned.

"Really," John answered, completely serious, with his arms crossed over his chest.

Standing there, Lestrade tried to process this new information, looking between the two men. After a few moments he nodded to himself, finally accepting the new information, to an extent. "All right…" he muttered, before speaking up so the others could hear him. "All right, who else knows about this?"

"Just Mrs. Hudson," John said. "Oh, and Mycroft; knowing him he probably still has surveillance set up in here."

"Right. You should probably call him," suggested Greg. "He'd be your best bet for making a smooth transition back into the world of the living without stirring up too much."

At Sherlock's groan, Greg raised a brow at John. Chuckling, he explained, "He was hoping you wouldn't say that."

* * *

Pulling up outside the Diogenes Club, after sending a warning text to Mycroft ahead of time, Lestrade got out of the driver's seat, following the other two into the familiar territory straight back to the elder Holmes's rooms.

At the sound of the door opening and closing, Mycroft didn't even bother to put on a surprised expression. "Why brother dear, how good of you to come back from the dead and pay me a visit," he uttered in his usual bored tone, setting down the newspaper he was glancing over and folding his hands neatly in his lap. Then, looking over at John, he seemed to notice the same thing Greg had at the pub. "Good to see you doing better John."

"Piss off, Mycroft." Seemed John was still more than a little angry with the British Government for the part he played in the events that lead up to Bart's.

Ignoring the outburst, Lestrade tried to move things along, bringing Mycroft up to speed, unnecessarily.

With a predatory grin, Mycroft gave the answer they were looking for, if a bit sarcastically. "Why I would be delighted to help you start the zombie apocalypse, Sherlock."

"Don't be facetious Mycroft," replied Sherlock with a roll of the eyes.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

As they turned to leave, satisfied that Mycroft would be able to handle things from there, the elder man spoke up once again to bring them to a stop. "Do try to keep certain activities to a minimum brother; we wouldn't want such base, ordinary actions to dumb you down."

Fists clenched at his sides and teeth gritted, John bit back the scathing remark itching at the back of his throat and didn't turn around. Sherlock, however, was unable to show such restraint.

"And I would advise you, brother, to keep your nose out of other peoples' business," the younger Holmes forced out through stiff lips. "And you needn't concern yourself with the state of my intellect; I can assure you it is more than up to snuff, considering how I have spent the past few months – all without your knowing any the better." With that he swept out, coat billowing behind him as John and Greg followed after, smirk firmly on the former's lips.

* * *

The next morning all the tabloids were running the story. "RICHARD BROOK PROVEN FAKE, CONSULTING DETECTIVE GAINS REDEMPTION" and "GENIUS RETURNS FROM THE DEAD" are among the most noteworthy of the headlines, all of which quote having spoken to a high government office and a person close to the detective (not mutually exclusive of course) had come forward and refuted the tawdry headlines from months past, providing sufficient proof that his words were the truth.

Of course, this meant that they all wanted a word with the genius himself, not to mention those closest to him – namely his blogger. Once again Lestrade had to act as escort for the pair when they ventured out of the flat to help on cases as, even though he had only been alive for a few days, Sherlock couldn't sit around the flat much longer, even with the distractions John presented on multiple occasions. Not to mention neither of them could stand the sounds of vultures – eh hem, news reporters – milling around outside 221B, never letting up on the noise or leaving, even when Sherlock started caterwauling on his violin. Not that crime scenes provided much reprieve either; countless reporters were constantly waiting outside wherever they went.

There was also the presence of Anderson and Donovan to consider. The two never stopped their whining that they had thought they were done with the "freak psychopath" for good. Sherlock was just opening his mouth to retort but amazingly John beat him to the punch.

"I am so glad the two of you are completely over the fact that you tarnished the name of a man who has helped your cases countless times without much earned compensation," swore the doctor at them, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. "Maybe next time you'd prefer to remain stumped as to the happenstances of a crime that a two-year old could deduce." And with that he swept out in a right Sherlockian manner, leaving the man himself to snicker at the expressions on the sergeant and forensics officer's faces, mouths gaping, before following after his partner.

Catching up with the good doctor just outside the barricade of crime scene tape, Sherlock brushed casually against his side in a quiet form of comfort. (The two had decided to keep their private lives provide; it wasn't a hard decision, the two were already very personal and reserved to begin with.) Walking a yard, Sherlock finally spoke up. "Been itching to say that, have you?" he asked quietly.

"You have no idea," John muttered darkly.

* * *

Back at the flat, in the bedroom that was starting to become not just Sherlock's but _theirs_, the younger worked at calming John down and ridding him of the stress brought on by the past week. He worshipped the other's body, kneading the tense muscles until John was laying slack on the bed beneath him, them moving on to placing feather-light kisses at each joint, crease, furrow, scar. Melting under the ministrations, John marveled at the fact he had Sherlock – a man known for his selfishness – paying such careful attention to him.

When Sherlock hits upon a slightly ticklish spot, the muscles flutter and contract and John squirms, trying to suppress a small giggle. Unfortunately, one cannot hide anything from Sherlock on a normal basis, let alone in their current position. With a smirk, Sherlock sucked lightly at the spot, holding John in place with a hand splayed just beneath his belly button. Being prevented from inching out from him, John wrapped his legs around Sherlock, placing his heels just below Sherlock's buttocks and forcing the other man up his body until their lips met solidly.

At first groaning in protest at being interrupted, Sherlock happily submitted, deciding to let John take control and explore his mouth with his tongue this time around. Breaking away after several long moments of languid snogging, Sherlock pulled back with a small smack, going back to giving every inch of John's body his most singular attention, mapping everything out and filing each gasp and moan into the John section of his mind palace.

* * *

_**My chapters are gradually getting shorter, aren't they? Whoopsies** **:P**_


	4. Chapter 4

_**Sorry for the delay, and sorry the chapter is so short, but I was having some reservations about it but I decided I should upload something before it got to the point it did with another one of my fics, where I didn't update for six months because I wasn't satisfied. **_

_**I'm not actually at all sure where this is going, I'm not really one to sit down and plot out a story, which probably isn't a very good method, so if y'all have any suggestions that'd be splendid. :)**_

_**Hope you**_** enjoy.**

* * *

John woke slowly from his deep slumber, highly conscious of the warm body sprawled completely on top of his, the messy mop of curls placed on his chest just over his heart, breath tickling near his armpit, a little bit of drool near his mouth. Small smile on his lips at how much younger Sherlock looked sleeping soundly, legs twinned in a complicated fashion around his own, arms clutching in a possessive manner, John reached up a hand and lightly stroked one of the prominent cheekbones with an index finger. The light dusting of reddish stubble around the jaw made John chuckle. Who would've thought Sherlock was a ginger?

The rumbling of his chest caused the other man to stir slightly, grumbling and lips smacking, wrapping arms more tightly around John's torso before drifting back off. John decided he would take this rare opportunity of a sleeping Sherlock to inspect the other's body, give him the attention he had received the day before, and make absolutely sure that his lover was healthy enough for his satisfaction. So carefully as possible, without waking the body above his, John flipped them over and eased Sherlock's hold a bit so he could look at him properly.

The sight before him made John gasp quietly. Over the past several days, when he and Sherlock had been in bed together, they hadn't really taken their time to _look _at each – not until Sherlock had been worshipping him the previous day. Though he supposed Sherlock had already noted his lowered weight, softened muscles, and the bags under his eyes, John himself hadn't yet taken a look at Sherlock's body, being too busy pleasuring one another. Now, though, sitting back on Sherlock's waist, John took the time to caress each and every bruise, cut, scrap, and scar he could find on Sherlock's once unmarred torso. With the sheer number, and by the looks of the fresher wounds, mere weeks old, it was a wonder the other man was able to ignore them when John was scrabbling at him chest and back in the throes of pleasure, no doubt irritating them, or when John was using him as a pillow the times he hadn't slunk away to do some thinking or work on an experiment. Luckily, it seemed Sherlock had had the sense to take care of each wound to prevent infection, though the scars left from haphazard stitches would definitely not be fading anytime soon.

These fairly minimal injuries made John wonder if there were more serious ones he had not been made aware of so he took a closer look at Sherlock's entire being, checking joints, looking for any blemish that had not been there previously. After his rudimentary examination, done so carefully so as not to wake Sherlock up when he so clearly needed the rest even still, John came to the conclusion that at least four ribs had been fractured, right shoulder separated, knuckles on the right hand shattered and somehow repaired, left wrist sprained just shy of the point of fracture, and several head injuries and possible concussions – all within the countless months that had passed, and none looked after professionally by any means.

Unable to contain his distraught anger any longer, John scrambled out of the bed as carefully as he could, pulling on his pants to go out to the living room and pace in front of the fireplace, fists clenched tightly at his sides and itching to punch something, _anything_. If John weren't so sure that Sherlock had already doubtless taken care of the men who had given him all those injuries, John would've gone out and found them for himself.

* * *

For once Sherlock slept soundly, stirring only when John was moving him around the bed. The ever-changing dreams through the night were strange, all of them of moments from the time he spent taking care of Moriarty's web, the occasions when he was severely injured. Only they were changed to include John, his doctor patching him up while scolding him for receiving each blow, though of course if John had really been there the likelihood that he would have received most of those injuries was narrowed marginally. Nonetheless, it was somewhat relaxing observing John admonishing him, the words contrasting with his careful, gentle yet firm hands working over him.

But as Sherlock felt the cold air rush in where once John's body was pressed against his own, his latest dream changed. Suddenly John vanished and Sherlock was left all on his own once again, only this time, as he decided to humor his brain and go along with the dream, heading to the direction he knew his next target was located, Sherlock heard that oh so familiar voice, telling him to stay away, to leave and save himself. Of course he didn't listen, plowing ahead as if nothing was amiss. As he rounded the corner, however, the dream shifted once again and he was back in that pool, John wearing the explosive-filled jacket and clutching Moriarty from behind, telling Sherlock to run and, instead of snipers turning their focus onto Sherlock to make the doctor back away in defeat Moriarty was suddenly holding John's gun, it having somehow left Sherlock's grip, and lifting it up to his head Moriarty pulled the trigger. With the trajectory and the close range, the bullet went straight through both Moriarty's and John's brains – and all Sherlock could do was stand there and watch as his best friend, his lover lay there under Moriarty's body, dead and bleeding out, skin already tinting blue as if he had been dead for hours.

Sherlock forced his brain to awaken, jolting up with a gasp. He was shocked to reach up and feel tear tracks running down his face. Scrubbing at them furiously, banishing the frenzied panic brought on by the dream, Sherlock worked desperately to dampen the unwanted emotion. It was bad enough that he could no longer suppress the love he felt for John, he didn't need the accompanying emotions along with it. So with one final deadbolt put in place on the door to the Emotions Room, Sherlock got out of bed and gathered the duvet around him, far too irritated this morning to bother with clothing.

Padding quietly out to the living room, Sherlock came upon John in his restless pacing in front of the fireplace. Curious as to what could be bothering the other man so early in the morning – because it most certainly couldn't be him, he had just woken up and he didn't have any on-going experiments for the doctor to stumble upon in the laboratory/kitchen – Sherlock stepped into his path, forcing John to come to a stop and look up at him, fury smoldering in his eyes.

Right eyebrow raised in query, Sherlock impatiently waited for John to spit it out. With a huff, John reached out and moved the duvet away from Sherlock's right shoulder to display the slight deformity that could still be seen, as not enough time had passed to it to heal completely. Laying a gentle hand on it, John glared up at Sherlock, eyes accusatory. "Why didn't you tell me about this?" he demanded.

"Tell you what?" Sherlock challenged, already annoyed that John felt the need to discuss this. "That I sustained numerous injuries at the hand of Moriarty's henchmen? There's really no reason, I saw to every one; there's no infection and aside from the shoulder and knuckles, there shouldn't be any lasting discomfort, so why bother you with them?"

"I'm a doctor, Sherlock!" shouted John, throwing up his hands in frustration. "I still could have looked at them to make sure you took care of them properly."

Eye roll. "Really, John, that'd be an unnecessary waste of your time."

John was seething. "A waste of my time? Even if that's true," he held up a hand to stop Sherlock from interrupting to inform him that _yes, it absolutely is true_, "you didn't think that I still would have wanted to know?"

Frowning and cocking his head, Sherlock tried to puzzle out why that would be. When it didn't occur to him, disgruntled, he asked. "Why?"

"Why? **Why?** Because I love you, you idiot, and I want to know when someone has marred your perfect body," at this John divested Sherlock of his sheet and caressed his body reverently, as if proving a point, "I want to know who it is I have to kill."

Realization struck Sherlock. "This is one of those things people do with their loved ones, isn't it?" Sherlock said. "Have irrational fears and become possessive and protective?" It made sense, he supposed; it would certainly explain his silly dream and the way his heart raced because of it. Should have been obvious really. Maybe he was slipping.

"You're not slipping," John mumbled against his lips and he pulled Sherlock down with the hands around his neck. _Had I said that aloud? _"You're just growing a heart, becoming human."

He scowled. "What need have I for a heart when that's what I have you for?" Sherlock replied, leaning down the last centimeter to capture John's lips, preventing him from giving an answer.

Groaning into the kiss, John stepped ever closer so that the only thing separating them was the damn pair of pants he had pulled on before pacing out to the living room. After a few breathless moments he pulled away slightly to get a good look at Sherlock's face. "I'm your heart, huh?" he teases. "Maybe I was wrong, maybe you are slipping, because that was awfully sweet and romantic Sherlock."

With an eye roll Sherlock backed out of John's grasp. "Still better than the frankly hilarious drivel you emailed your girlfriends," he shot back as he leaned down to pick up the duvet and cover himself once again.


End file.
